


Frozen Rain

by PenguinofProse



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Cold Weather, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: There is snow and Clarke has just realised she's in love. What passes for festive fluff in a fandom abundant in apocalypses. Diverges from canon at the end of "The Other Side" (S4).
Relationships: Bellamy Blake & Clarke Griffin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	Frozen Rain

Clarke is very aware that she has chosen the worst possible moment to realise that she's in love with Bellamy.

She's pointing a gun at him, for goodness' sake. And he's standing there and telling her to make it a kill shot and, well, obviously she can't do that, can she? It was one thing to give Finn a merciful death, and another to know that the bullet that killed Lexa was meant for her. But to actually pull the trigger herself, when there is an alternative, albeit a completely awful one?

No. She can't do this. It's a stupid idea. Absolutely preposterous.

Maybe, an inappropriately optimistic voice in the back of her head whispers, this might be a case of third time lucky.

With that decided, she lowers the gun, and tries not to cry too embarrassingly loudly. It hardly matters, of course, because Bellamy has disappeared off up the ladder to find his sister, and now they're probably having some beautifully heartwarming reunion while she stands here sobbing and wonders how on Earth she is ever going to fix pulling a gun on him.

And has she mentioned that she's just realised she's in love with him? She's completely screwed.

She realised she loved him before this, of course. Somewhere between regretting sending him into Mount Weather, and that day where he handcuffed her and tried to hand her over to Pike.

Yeah. She's always sucked at timing.

But that wasn't the same as realising she's in love with him. She's going to be having words with those people who wrote all those worthy old Earth novels she had to read in school, when the world burns and she sees them in the afterlife. They always claimed that it was going to be easy to notice that she was in love, that there would be butterflies and staring and her heart skipping a beat.

What a load of crap.

It's not like that at all. He's been her closest friend for a while, now, of course. And he's the person she goes to for reassurance when she's worried, the person who cheers her up with a stupid half a joke when things are falling apart, the person for sharing joy in a moment of happiness. He's just her person, really, she supposes. Her person for most times and places. And, well, she never realised that meant she was in love but – yeah, to be clear, she does now.

And it's not as if she's just suddenly noticed that he's good-looking, or experienced some electric shock of his hand brushing against hers. She's always noticed he's good-looking, she's not blind. And, yeah, she supposes his hugs have long been something she finds pretty lovely, and she might have developed a bit of a tendency to hold his hand when things are getting a bit sketchy, but she hasn't exactly experienced a moment of abrupt sexual awakening, or anything.

If there's a difference, she thinks sourly, between having a good-looking close friend whom one loves, and being in love with them – well, then. It's a pretty damn slim one.

Meanwhile, of course, Bellamy has finished hugging his sister, and is now descending the ladder, and Clarke can hear countless grounders beginning to congregate outside. Angry with herself for making such a mess of this, she dashes a hand across her eyes.

It's not that she doesn't want him to see her breaking down like this. He's seen her broken plenty of times before. It's just that, this time, she doesn't want to watch him notice that she's broken, but then walk on by. And she's pretty sure that's what will happen, because has she mentioned that she just pulled a gun on him?

He reaches the bottom of the ladder, takes in the tears she knows she has failed to hide. Takes one step towards her, two, three, but no more.

“Come on. We've got things to do.” The words are harsh, but the tone is surprisingly gentle.

“Yeah. You're right. Bellamy, I'm so sorry, you know I wouldn't have -”

He's already gone.

…....

She volunteers too quickly to go with him to fetch Raven. This she knows. She can see it in the disbelieving squint he directs at her, and in her mother's narrowed eyes. But Raven's important to her, so it's surely not such an insane decision.

Or at least, it wouldn't be, if Raven were actually the reason she's volunteering to drive out into a death wave. Love Raven though she does, that's not exactly the love that's motivating her now.

She's worried that if Bellamy goes out there without her, now, she might never see him again.

Her mother thinks she's lost her mind, of course. She makes it quite clear that the journey is too long for comfort, and that there's a good chance of failure. Reminds her, too, of that vision she had. But she's growing fed up of a world in which she lives on, in love with people who are dead, and she's not interested in letting it happen again.

So it is that she follows him out of the bunker.

It is terrifying, outside. There is snow lying on the ground, tinted orange in the light of the oncoming end of the world, and the sky is bathed in a kind of eerie twilight that sort of makes her want to vomit.

Or maybe that's just the beginning of radiation sickness.

No, she has more sense than that. It can't be radiation sickness, she's wearing a suit.

They don't speak much, as they jump into the front of the rover, Murphy and Emori climbing in the back. Clarke's not sure what to say, where on Earth to start, how she is possibly to begin to apologise for what she's just done. She hopes Bellamy is only silent because he is driving, and not because this latest sin has put her, at last, beyond his forgiveness. She always did wonder whether it was something he would run out of, one day.

They have not spoken in fifteen minutes when, at last, she forces herself to at least try. If the world is ending, and she has just realised that she is in love, she thinks she probably doesn't have the time to procrastinate any longer than this wasted quarter of an hour.

“I'm sorry, Bellamy. For what I did back there, in the bunker.”

“Do we really need to do this now, Clarke? While we're trying to outrun the end of the world?”

“I'm worried that if I don't say it now, I might not get another chance.”

He sighs heavily. “OK. Say what you want to say.”

That's not an auspicious start, but she is running out of options. “I'm so sorry. I thought I had to stop you to save everyone.”

He somehow manages a movement that she understands as a shrug, even while driving. “I knew you wouldn't actually shoot me.”

“You did?”

“Well, I thought you wouldn't. Thanks for proving me right on that one, it was a bit of a relief.” She can't believe he's joking at a time like this.

Or maybe she can. She seems to remember that was on her list of things she loves, actually.

“Why are there never any good choices?” It's a ridiculous question, at a ridiculous time, but he does not completely ignore it.

“Not shooting me was a decent choice, I'd say.”

He is silent after that, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, as she waits for him to tell her all is forgiven.

He never does. He comments on something rather different, instead. “I expected snow to be better than this.”

“What do you mean?” Why, in the name of sanity, is he talking about snow while she's waiting for him to process her apology?

“I thought it would be more beautiful. More... magical. That's how I remember it being described in books.”

“Why would it be magical? It's just frozen rain.”

“You know, your cynicism has always been one of the things I love the most about you.”

She freezes at that, then, every bit as frozen as those eerie ice crystals that coat the not-yet-burning Earth. Love? One of the things he loves the most about her?

It's probably not the being in love kind of love, she reasons. He might even just be making one of those off-the-cuff remarks he likes to make when the going gets tough. It might mean nothing at all, and just be a casual turn of phrase, and now here she is going hysterical over it.

But, then again, it might mean that he's forgiven her. It might mean that he will always forgive her, for much the same reason, she now realises, as she always forgives him.

She dares to peek up at his face, to search for clues. It's difficult, of course, because he's wearing his suit, but he's definitely looking at her and he's definitely smiling and she is, definitely, at least somewhat forgiven. She grins back at him, wonders where to take the conversation next. A harmless compliment about what she loves the most about him, perhaps, or -

That's when they hit the tree.

…....

Clarke is feeling perfectly well, as she sits in the snow in her helmetless suit and waits for Monty and Harper to appear and rescue them. As time-pressured missions out into the face of an apocalypse go, this could perhaps be going better, but it is what it is and she sees no reason to make a fuss.

Bellamy settles himself next to her, eases his long legs out in front of him.

“You feeling OK?”

“Fine.” She rushes to assure him, ignoring the rising nausea that plays at the edges of her concentration. “You?”

“I'm great.” He says, frowning at her a little. “I'm not the one who just gave up her helmet.”

“It was the only decent choice.” His frown turns into a smile at that, and it does funny things to her insides.

Maybe those long-dead novelists were onto something, after all.

“Are you sure you're going to be OK? Such a stupidly Clarke thing to do, giving the helmet that's supposed to save your life away to someone else.”

“I'm OK. The nightblood will protect me. I'm only a little cold without that helmet on.” She gathers her courage, wonders if this idea to steer the conversation back to that warmer mood of earlier will work. “What were you trying to tell me earlier, about snow?”

He doesn't quite pick up from exactly where he left off, to her disappointment. “It's always described in old Earth literature as being this wonderful stuff that everyone enjoys and that makes the world look beautiful.”

“Old Earth literature is often wrong.” She has realised this, today, after all. Or perhaps it is now yesterday.

“Yeah.” He chuckles a little. “Children supposedly like playing in it. And – and it's supposed to be romantic, too. Romantic frozen rain.”

“Why would it be romantic?” She hopes he cannot hear how fast her heart is pounding. And if he can – well, then. She can pass it off as radiation sickness. It might even be radiation sickness.

“God knows. I guess because it's cold, so people would, you know, snuggle a bit?”

“I can confirm it's cold.” She thinks her ears might fall off, soon, actually.

“Are you OK? Do you want my helmet?”

“No, you idiot. You're not a nightblood. I didn't not shoot you this morning just so you could die keeping my ears warm.”

“OK, OK. No helmet.” He pauses for a moment, seems to consider his next words carefully. “I'm not sure snuggling would really work in a rubber suit.”

They're only speaking hypothetically, of course. This is just a thought exercise, she is sure of it. He is in no sense suggesting that he would actually snuggle her, if the opportunity presented itself.

“I think you're probably right.” She agrees mildly.

“Do you think we should try it, just to check?”

Well. If it's in the name of scientific investigation, how can she say no?

“We could.” She agrees carefully. “I guess we have nothing to lose.”

“Exactly.” He agrees firmly. “The world is ending, we have nothing to lose by checking.”

With that, he shuffles a little closer, awkwardly stretches one rubber-clad arm around her. And she's very aware that it makes her one-hundred-percent absolutely pathetic, but actually, she does feel warmer. The glow she feels inside at his closeness somehow reaches all the way to her eartips.

Those damn novelists. They have their moments of accuracy, she has to acknowledge.

“Any better?” He asks, suddenly rather nearer her face than before, albeit with a helmet still very much between them.

“Yeah, actually. Much better. Thanks.”

“Any time.” He says, as if he actually means it, and she glows even warmer at that. Does he really mean to say that, if they survive this, and are still alive after tomorrow, he would willingly snuggle her any time? Or is she taking his words too literally?

She leans into him a little more, and they sit in silence for a moment. She thinks she had probably better say something else, had better ensure her list of regrets isn't too absurdly long if she dies in the next fourteen hours, but she's not quite sure where to start.

But then, of course, Bellamy starts for her.

“Clarke?”

“Hmm?”

“Could you – would you tell me why you didn't shoot me?”

He must know, she realises then. He must know or he wouldn't have asked the question outright. But she figures she had better tell him, just to make sure that she's keeping no secrets from him. Just to keep that list of regrets as short as possible.

She doesn't try to prevaricate, or dress it up. She just says it.

“Because I realised I'm in love with you.”

He breathes out, a long sigh through gritted teeth. “Damn it, Clarke. That is some poor timing.”

She's not sure what reaction she was expecting, really, but of one thing she's absolutely certain. She wasn't expecting him to say that. She figures confessions of love usually go one of two ways, either a joyful reciprocation or a polite rebuffing. Those damn novelists said nothing about criticism of her timing.

On the other hand, she's fairly sure those novelists aren't into frozen rain, either.

She supposes she probably ought to reply, eventually. “Yeah?”

“You couldn't have realised that, I don't know, twenty four hours earlier? So that I could actually kiss you, instead of having this damn helmet on that I can't remove without dying?”

“What?”

“I just think it would have been more convenient if you'd realised it at a time when we could kiss.”

She doesn't understand quite what he's getting at. “Are you feeling OK, Bellamy? Is the snow getting to you, or something?”

“What?” Now it is his turn to get confused, it seems.

“Well it's just that you mentioned kissing, and I wondered if the snow was making you feel unintentionally romantic?”

He's frowning at her, hard. “I'm sorry, did I miss a step? I've been in love with you for almost as long as we've been on this damn planet, and you just worked out you're in love with me too, so I'm complaining that it would have been better if we'd done this before sitting in the snow in radiation suits waiting for the world to end?”

Wow. OK, then. Wow.

She makes a valiant effort to gather her scattered wits.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes. You did miss a step. You missed out the part where you were in love with me too.”

“I thought you knew that part already?”

“Well, I guess I know it now.” She leans into him even closer, half on his lap, now, and curses the layers of suit between them.

“You know what I know now?” He asks, abandoning all pretence of subtlety in favour of lifting her, suit and all, right across his thighs and tightening his arms around her waist.

“What?”

“Why all those old Earth authors thought snow was so romantic.”

…....

Monty and Harper arrive, of course, because they are just the kind of reliable people who might well, Clarke thinks, save the human race one day. And they get to the shore, all mismatched seven of them, and cross to the island, and stomp through the snow towards the lab.

There are ideas to be shared. There are plans to be made. There is a rocket to be prepared.

But they need to make time for one thing, first.

Clarke makes it through the airlock, rips the helmet that should have been Jasper's off her borrowed suit as carefully as her limited patience will allow. Turns towards Bellamy, and sees that, sure enough, he is half way through performing exactly the same task.

She crosses the distance between him and flings her still-gloved hands around his neck.

It's an urgent kiss, of course, but a beautiful one all the same. And she knows that there are things to achieve, but there are these precious seconds to savour, first, as the warmth of his kiss shoots right through her, finally defrosting her from the tips of her toes to the curve of her ears, and as his lips move against hers and his tongue is suddenly in her mouth, doing frankly alarming things to her insides.

She wonders if he always kisses as if the end of the world is coming, or whether this is just because, today, it is.

Either way, she intends to stick by his side to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
